The Snitch

Chapter Ten

By Libertine

       

"No. No. You're not coming with me, Potter. I'm going to deal with my father on my own. And if you say a word of this –"

"Draco, I'm not letting you go alone."

"Letting me? Excuse me? Who made you the bloody authority on what I can and can't do? This is family business, for a start – it's got nothing to do with you. And secondly, I don't want you pawing at me when I confront him. I think it would have a rather detrimental effect on the serious slant of the matter if you were hanging off my –"

"Draco!"

"Dick, Potter. It's called a bloody dick. Don't look so damned shocked, either. I'm fairly certain now that your virgin ears are a whole lot less uncontaminated than you like to let on." Draco swung his leg over his broom. "I can't believe my father would do this to me. It has to have been him – I saw him in the stands, and I didn't even think twice about what that meant. I knew he was low, but never that low. Sending the snitch out so I'd catch it? Is that his idea of father-son bonding – using magic to make me tell him everything? I'm – I don't know what I am, any more. I've shot straight through disbelief and am heading for an overwhelming desire to commit patricide."

"He didn't want you to catch it," said Harry, simply.

"Of course he – what?" Draco shot a look toward Harry, poised for take off.

"He wanted me to catch it," said Harry. "The snitch was meant for me. Hermione worked that much out herself. It makes no sense that he'd want it to affect you – it'd only turn him into a blithering wreck, as it ended up doing. I guess Lucius figured that since you'd never caught it before, it was a pretty safe bet to send it out onto the field."

Draco held himself very still.

"You know, Potter," he said, quietly, after a minute had elapsed. "I didn't expect I could possibly feel any worse than I did before, but you just managed to prove me wrong."

"Sorry."

"Argh."

"Um. Should be we going, now?"

"Shut up, Potter."

Harry shuffled his feet, awkwardly. Before him, Draco was slumped over his broom, floating a metre above the ground, the tail-end of his robe just touching the earth. Harry walked over, dragging his own broomstick behind him, and placed a reassuring hand on Draco's shoulders.

"It's okay, Draco."

"It's not okay. Don't touch me."

"Okay." Harry withdrew his hand.

Draco groaned. "Okay, touch me."

Harry raised an eyebrow. "Do you think that's wise? Right now, I mean? I think – if you let me start, I wouldn't be able to, ah – control myself."

"Potter. Really. It's not as if you're a giant amongst men, so to speak. I think I'd be perfectly capable of holding you off from doing any serious damage with one hand."

"And what would you be doing with the other?" said Harry, grinning suddenly.

"Practising the dulcima?" Draco suggested sarcasticly, levering himself into an upright position on the broom. "And Potter – don't demean yourself by making some ridiculous allusion to some sexual practise involving musical instruments, okay? My brain's been tried enough with all sorts of nastiness in the past few hours."

He sat there, expectantly, touching the earth lightly – his lips not exactly puckered but definately held in such a way as to appear incredibly kissable; his grey eyes heavy-lidded; his gaze partially obscured by the coverlet of his lashes. His silver-blonde hair framed his pale features like some glorious windswept halo – he seemed to Harry like some defiant angel, innocently tempting him with all the sins of a devil.

Harry gulped, and looked away. Without a word, he climbed onto his own broomstick, clutching it tightly. His knuckles were white.

He glanced across at Draco. The boy was watching him, impassive.

"So – I'm rejected, now?" he inquired, but was unable to disguise the quaver in his voice.

"No. I just don't think it's wise," said Harry, honestly. "I don't – want to do anything now. We'll find your father, destroy the snitch, and then – then we can do something. If you still want to, I mean." He bit his lower lip, almost hard enough to draw blood.

"And if you still want to, too, I suppose," said Draco, bitterly. "That does give you a nice little out, there, doesn't it? You can blame everything on the snitch, after all. I'm sorry, Draco," he mimicked, "I was just overwhelmed by the spell. I couldn't help myself. But now I've come to my senses, I've realised that – well, you aren't in the least bit attractive to me. In fact, I'm in love with that – what do you call that mud-blood creature, again?"

"Hermione," said Harry. He was looking now at his hands, purposefully examining the curl and uncurl of his knuckles. He wanted desperately to retaliate to Draco's words – and there was no doubt Draco had fine-tuned this particular speech so as to derive the most explosive response from Harry.

But just as Harry had needed to admit to the pressure of his built up lust in the Slytherin room, so it seemed that Draco had to admit to his – even if it happened to be in taunts and jibes during a completely inopportune time. So Harry would just have to maintain his fast dissipating cool until Draco finished. Of course – Harry considered – there was always one other alternative..

"Hermione," Draco was saying. "We're going to have marvellous mud-blood children together and live in a mud-blood house and have wonderful mud-blood sex. My god, Potter, can you imagine it? I feel so dirty just thinking about it – but I suppose you have to slum it, now and again –"

He stopped abruptly. Harry had leant over, and silenced him with a kiss.

It was a different sort of kiss from the last one in the changerooms, Harry thought – using the rational part of his brain, that remaining sliver of sense which wasn't caught up in Draco's breath, in Draco's lips. This kiss wasn't born of passion – rather, it was a kiss of compassion, an understanding kiss, a kiss that said: I know. A kiss that said: I hope. A kiss that said: I can't promise anything, but I want to – and that alone must count for something.

Harry wrapped his arms about Draco's shoulders, but didn't make any move to pull or struggle with the boy's robe. Instead, he simply held on, and after a while Draco was clinging to him too, both of them balanced precariously on their floating broomsticks, the parallel angle of the brooms making it an impossibility to turn and face each other completely. They kissed from side-on, then, their upper torsos pressed close, while everything below the waist was forced to remain agonisingly apart.

Somewhere near the end Draco let out a hollow, wounded sound and began to push at Harry, and when Draco's shoves were close to becoming blows Harry released him. They swung apart, the tips of their broomsticks seemingly repelled from each other, like magnets placed in opposition. Draco coughed, wiping at his mouth with his sleeve, whilst Harry could only sit there and watch, his broom bobbing intermitently in the rising breeze.

"Definately," said Draco, hoarsely. "Definately no sex. That's – just too gross."

"Thanks a lot, Draco," said Harry, nonplussed.

"We'll have to come to some better arrangement," Draco said, thoughtfully. "Perhaps we could become platonic companions, or something similar – I'm sure there's a better word for it."

"Sexually repressed schmucks," Harry suggested, still smarting.

"You make it sound so unappealing," Draco complained.

"It's about as appealing as a chocolate cake in an unbreakable glass box."

Draco showed his teeth, suddenly – a flash of anger erupting upon his previously indifferent countenance. This transformation from calmness to anger was so shocking that Harry jerked backwards involuntarily – his broom shot away a foot, nearly bucking Harry off. He clutched to the handle, desperately, all his primed seeker instincts deserting him at this untimely moment.

"Fuck you, Potter," said Draco, shortly.

And with that he kicked away from the ground, sheering almost vertically upwards – only levelling out when he was far beyond the tops of nearby trees, and well clear of the highest towers of Hogwarts. Harry blinked up as Draco shot quickly out of sight – flying at what was probably the fastest speed his broom could take without falling apart, and making a deliberate effort to lose Harry.

What on earth did I do? Harry wondered, as he moved to follow Draco at a more leisurely pace; they were both heading for the same destination, after all, and he supposed it wouldn't hurt him overmuch to let Draco be first to face his father. Was Draco going batty too? Why did he make such a fuss over a few facetious remarks – and then Harry swallowed, rethinking over those things he'd said.

Of course Draco was going to be offended. The youth had recently bared his soul – or as much of a soul he dared to acknowledge, and Harry had basically laughed at Draco's suggestions of something – well, something more than indulging a few of Harry's primal fantasies. Harry was appalled at himself: he'd managed in a few comments to completely alienate Draco – in fact, he wouldn't have been surprised if the boy never spoke to him again.

I'm such an idiot, Harry lamented, almost banging his head off his broomstick in frustration. Draco's gotten too far into this – he wouldn't settle for anything less than a proper relationship. He was testing me, that's all – to see how genuine I was, to see how much of it was the snitch and how much of it was real. And I failed – I failed miserably.

There's the difference between Draco and I, Harry thought miserably, gliding on through the snow-thick clouds. Draco hides a sensitive and good heart beneath his cold and callous exterior. And me? Beneath my sensitive and good exterior, there's nothing but bloody hormones.

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